Tag Archives: World’s Best Mom

My Children and Gross and Annoying – The Final Chapter

I felt I needed to do one more of these since Part II focused almost entirely on “gross.” And my children are far too annoying not to give them equal time in that arena.

So let’s just jump right in shall we?

Oliver? Shreds paper. I mean, like all the time. And not only is this strange, but it’s also messy. As if my house isn’t a disaster as it is…

It all started with him realizing that he could use tissue paper to make snow for one of his little Thomas Train scenes. Then he found he could also use it to simulate soap suds for “the wash down.” And THEN he cut out the middle man altogether and started shredding it just for the sake of creating little piles.

The saving grace is that he only does this with tissue-like paper. Paper towels are about as thick as he’s willing to go. So at least 50% of the paper we own is safe from his machinations.

Now, I know that this is all tied in with his sensory issues and it’s somehow soothing for him, but having to keep anything tissue-related out of reach is ANNOYING. Seriously – it’s like living with a gerbil.

Also? He will trail me around the house asking me for the same thing over-and-over-and-over-and-over… Like:

Oliver: Mommy – I want some milk please.

Me: Okay – just a minute honey.

Oliver: Mommy – I want some milk.

Me: Okay – just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Me: Just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk. I want some milk. I want somemilk. I wantsomemilk. Iwantsomemilk. IwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilk.

Oh my god (insert Chandler Bing’s signature tone here) someone make it stop.

This one probably doesn’t have anything to do with his Spectrum issues. Instead, I think it’s a direct result of my inability to maintain focus for more than 30 seconds. You see, it’s a very common occurrence for one of my children to ask me for something, and then for me to say “you bet!” and walk purposefully out of the room…only to get sidetracked by something else and never be heard from again. So this is probably his way of making sure I follow through. Proving that I have only myself to blame.

Still very annoying though.

Then there are the twins.

For a long time I found it seizure inducing when they would scream the same thing in stereo. But now I get the pleasure of listening to them argue. And make simultaneous yet opposing demands.

If one of them wants the lights on, the other wants them off. If one of them wants butter on their rice, the other wants it plain (and god help the woman who doesn’t make it crystal clear that their servings were prepared separately as ordered). If one of them wants to watch The Wonder Pets on TV, the other one wants to watch Diego.

Don’t get me wrong, they play wonderfully together and they are the best of friends. But they’re learning how to assert themselves just like any other three year olds. So it’s inevitable that they’d seek out opportunities to clash.

The best is when they do this in the car. Because you know, I can’t escape. It usually has to do with keeping the windows up or down. And compromising with one up/one down doesn’t work since from what I understand, wind can reach you from either side.

So I hear “I want-a window DOWN!” and I put the windows down. Then I hear “NO! I want-a window UP!” and I put them back up. Then “NO! Down!” – and they go down. Then “[howl] NOOOOO! UP!” – and they go up. And this continues until I decide that it’s kind of funny to mess with them and start rolling the windows up and down as fast as I can.

This would be when they join forces and either hate me or think I’m the funniest mom ever. On a good day it’s the latter.

Another precious little habit of theirs is to turn a short bedtime story into an hour-long activity by demanding to take turns reciting their version of the text on EVERY PAGE. And if I try to turn the page without each of them having their full moment in the spotlight, they make “the noise.”

I put “the noise” in quotes, because that’s what I’ve starting to call it, saying “don’t you MAKE that noise or I will put this book away.” A tactic that is only partly effective since they generally switch to writhing around on the floor howling “NO!” in an attempt to squeeze my brain until it literally explodes.

It’s very hard to capture “the noise” in writing, but I guess you could call it whining. Phonetically, it would be something like “Eh! Eh! Eh!” Which doesn’t sound that bad as I reread it…but believe me after five storybook pages of that, you will start scanning the room for sharp objects to drive into your eardrums.

And if they’re really on their game, they will battle each other for the last word. Each making “the noise” after the other takes their turn – making it impossible for me to turn the page until I finally lose it and say “that’s it! Lights out!” That’s usually when they drop to the ground and pull out another signature move that I like to call “sizzling bacon.” That one looks a lot like demonic possession (I mean – from what I’ve seen on TV), but the exorcism is far more simple. It just requires assurances that we WILL in fact continue the story if they just stopstopstopfortheloveofgodpleasestop.

So yeah – that’s kind of annoying.

This has gotten rather long, and any other parents reading this know that I could go on forever. So I’ll end with a new favorite.

Eleanor has decided that she is only a part time three year old. The rest of the time, she is thirteen. This manifests in her angsty practice of being frequently wounded by something innocuous that we do or say. She will immediately leave the room and then settle in a spot nearby where we are sure to hear her whimpering tears.

At first I thought this was hilarious. It brought back so many memories of sitting alone in my self inflicted misery, just waiting for someone to happen upon me and realize how wronged I have been by such a cruel world…

But then I remember that she’s only three, and isn’t slated to become an angsty teenager for another 10 years. So does that mean that we will get more of the same until 2019 when she officially takes office as the resident teenage girl? Or is she just starting to hone her skills ensuring her black belt in emotional blackmail by age nine?

I’m afraid to speculate. Hopefully, I’ll be too busy cleaning up shredded tissue paper to notice.

My Children Are Gross and Annoying

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You think I’m kidding?

I’m not.

You think I’m awful?

Okay – maybe I am. But I’m just stating facts. As adorable as they may be, my children have their flaws, and the toddler/preschool years have been a real treat.

Let’s start with “gross.”

Oliver picks his nose. And he eats it. I probably shouldn’t admit this because there is nothing funny about it. No justification through laughter and commiseration. It’s just gross and embarrassing and I LIVE for the day when I can tell him how he used to torture me with this revolting (and seemingly unbreakable) habit. Later in life, I will in turn, torture him with the knowledge that he was a nose picker (and eater) as a long past due punishment. Probably in front of his high school girlfriend.

Also, he’s obsessed with dirt.

Meaning that he can’t walk past a patch of dirt and NOT shuffle through it. He likes the big dust clouds that result since they are reminiscent of the steam clouds he sees in his bajillion Thomas the Tank Engine DVDs. He calls this “down tracks” (as in trains going down the tracks). I get it. I know what he’s going for. But to the rest of the world? It just looks like a giant four year old in a cloud of dust. We’ve started calling him Pig-Pen. Which sounds much cuter than it actually is.

But the real gross out factor of this love affair with dirt is that ANY form of dirt or dirt-like substance will do. Rolling around in sand at the beach? Acceptable. Shoving your hand into public ashtrays on the street? Disgusting. “Oliver! No dirt!” has become my signature bellow around the neighborhood.

Then there’s George.

And George? Pees. Everywhere. On the carpet, on the stairs, on the basement couch (by the way – you should TOTALLY come over to watch movies one night…sit down, make yourself comfortable…), on the bathroom floor IN FRONT OF the toilet… It’s like having a puppy. Except I can’t whack him on the nose with a newspaper when he does it.

There is no potty training-related excuse for this behavior because he LOVES going potty. Especially flushing. While Oliver gained 10 lbs eating mini marshmallows as he sat on the potty, George has needed no incentive beyond flushing. And he’ll keep going if I let him. We’ve had to enforce a strict one flush rule in our house for fear of George running up the water bill – or just breaking all of the toilets. Which is entirely possible since he will go from potty to potty if I don’t watch him. It’s a “round the world” of potties if you will. Maybe he’s marking his territory? That would explain all of the peeing on the floor…

While I wouldn’t say that Eleanor is gross, her delight in anything gas-related would put a twelve year old boy to shame. I’ve already written about this – but it doesn’t seem to be a phase that she’ll outgrow anytime soon. She also loves to simulate the noises, and has become quite good at it.

I’m trying to get her to replace her squeals of laughter with a simple “excuse me” when she does “furt” (her pronunciation), but she’s not picking it up. Here is a recent conversation we had:

Eleanor: Mommy! I FURTED!

Me: Well what do you say when you fart?

Eleanor: I say PPTHTTTT!

Me: Let me clarify that…What do you say AFTER you fart?

She only came up with “excuse me” when I gave her the answer.

Oh – and if you think it’s crass that I actually let her use the word “fart” instead of “toot” or “pass gas” or some other more ladylike variation…we’re so beyond that at this point…I don’t even try.

Eleanor is probably more annoying than she is gross though. So I’ll start with her on that topic.

Eleanor has to be the center of attention at all times. And she’s a quick study. So I have to think long and hard about what might constitute positive reinforcement.

She used to be such a tough little cookie and would barely pause to brush the bloody gravel off her knees after a fall while playing outside with her brothers. So OF COURSE I would fuss over her when she did cry. That always meant that she must be really hurt.

I’m not entirely sure when this changed, but at some point my little Camille figured out that a few tears would be her golden ticket to spotlight city. So now she’s always hurt.

I should really count the number of times that she says “I hurt my neck” on a given day. I’m not sure why that’s her injury of choice, but the fact that she usually points to her stomach or her elbow when she says it, doesn’t provide any clues. And she can squeeze out some real tears too. She’s got skillz, that one… But you know – it’s really annoying.

My mother recently noticed that every time she talks to Eleanor on the phone, she gets an update on all of her granddaughter’s boo boos.

Good god, but it’s like she’s an old woman! If you ask her how she’s doing, you’ll hear all about her ailments “well…I’m coming down with a head cold and my sciatica has been acting up…but I’m getting by…” Sheesh!

But her twin brother, George has an even more annoying method for getting attention: he screams.

And when I say, he screams, I don’t mean he cries or yells or even bellows. I mean, he makes noises that would rival the shrieks of any Von Helsing vampire bride. He can shatter glass with his screams.

As an “intense” child, George seems to find a multitude of triggers for his screams. It could be something as obvious as a sibling snatching a toy from him to more unusual transgressions, such as my insistence that he wear pants when out on the front lawn.

Either way – his screams are unsettling. And cause sharp pains in your ears. Hopefully, he’ll grow out of this. Or cultivate a successful future career as an opera singer.

And last but not least, there is Oliver. The dirt flinging is pretty annoying – but he’s got so much more to offer than just that!

I’d have to say that he is most annoying when he’s feeling particularly boisterous. Sensory issues play a huge role in his special needs and this boy really likes physical contact. He doesn’t just sit next to you…he sits on you. And if you think you’ll just teach him a lesson by sitting on top of him for a change, you should save yourself the effort. He’ll love it.

I can’t bend over to pick up toys without bracing myself for the inevitable impact of his assault. He’s not a violent child. He just feels the need to lunge at the people he loves.

I’ve decided that I’d make a fantastic line backer now (minor league of course since I’m only 5′ 6″ and not exactly beefy). I can shift my center of gravity on a dime. I now have a sixth sense for detecting a sneak attack, and I rarely lose my footing. I went to Fordham University, so my sparse knowledge of football history includes Vince Lombardi. And I think I’d make a very respectable eighth block of granite.

But for all of their annoying qualities, I’m sure the feeling is mutual. I can only imagine how sick they are of my constant nagging:

“Don’t touch that!“

“Get out of the street!“

“Come back here!“

“Don’t hit!“

“Don’t eat that!“

“Don’t throw dirt!“

“Not around the neck!“

I suspect that a lot of eye rolling goes on behind my back. “God – she’s so shrill.“

So we all have our quirks. But I’m not nearly as gross as they are. Unless of course you count the mass quantities of junk food I put away each day. Though I don’t consider that gross as much as just flat out survival.

Polarn O. Pyret: A Giveaway and Some Boring Home Movies of My Kids

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This morning, I got a little slap on the hand from BlogHer for hosting a giveaway above a certain price point on a page displaying their ads (seems I’m not so good at reading the fine print on contracts). So I had to take a break from my blogging black out week to move that post HERE.

I’ll be taking entry comments both here and on the new post, so no need to comment a second time if you’ve already done so. Sorry for the confusion.

Okay – back to my vacation!

Sound Byte: And I Was Actually Serious When I Said It…

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Just a sample of the ridiculous things I’ve heard myself say to my children recently:

Honey, be gentle with the inchworm…you’re scaring him.

You guys – DON’T hug the mannequins…

I love you too…can I have my head back now? No really honey, I can’t breath.

Don’t lick people!

[To a whining crying Eleanor in the car] Me: What’s wrong Eleanor, you don’t like Barry White? Eleanor: Nooo-hooo-hooo-hooo. Me: Well, that’s too bad sweetie [turning up the volume] because I looooove Barry White. [This was less ridiculous than it was mean – but honestly, WHO doesn’t like Barry White?!]

Oliver, honey, please stop kissing the mannequins.

Hey! Naked people stay inside! NAKED PEOPLE STAY INSIDE!

Oliver sweetie, what are you eating? Show me what you have in your mouth…okay, but just please tell me that it’s food.

George – do NOT spit that out. I want you to swallow. I mean it – you swallow. Don’t spit! Swallow!

Parenting Skills at Their Best

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I try to limit the potty training references since I have some readers without kids – and one of the perks to not having children is NOT having to spend your day talking about poop. So I’ll warn you now that it IS going to come up in this one. And it’s not going to be pretty.

On Monday evening, I arrived home alone with the kids. Chris had to drive separately that day, and as usual, he had metro problems delaying him by at least an hour. Now, I am home with alone with the kids quite a bit since Chris has to travel for work. But I’ve been finding it increasingly more complicated since the twins ceased to be blobs (that’s right all you Angelina haters – babies do start out as BLOBS) and have joined their older brother in his daily mission to make me a lunatic.

Actually, it’s been a while since anyone would call George and Eleanor “blobs” – but in the recent past, they were far more sedentary. Approaching their second birthday, they are now a force to be reckoned with, and taking your eyes off of them for more than a minute can result in nothing short of global thermonuclear war. Or at least a toilet paper trail from the bathroom that circles the first floor ten times.

The first half hour was a whirlwind of the usual chaos – a blur of kids playing, crying and climbing on furniture while I tried to make dinner, get the daycare bag emptied and start lunches for the following day. It’s impossible for me to remember the exact sequence of events up until the first minor crisis – but that that pretty much sums it up.

Once everyone was busy eating dinner and watching (surprise, surprise) yet another Wiggles DVD, I ran downstairs to change a load of laundry. Suddenly, I could hear Oliver calling to me, “Mommy! Mommy!” But it didn’t sound like he was upset, so I yelled, “just a minute” a few times until I was done. When I came upstairs, I realized that he was calling me to let me know that he had to go potty. He is really only 75% potty trained and still needs help getting through the process. So all I could do was hustle him into the bathroom as quickly as possible and hope that he could at least “finish” on the potty.

Though I was fairly sure he was done, I settled him on the toilet anyway and then ran to answer the phone. It was Chris. He was calling to let me know that he was still stuck on the metro and would get back to me once he was in his car. At this point, my half naked son walked into the kitchen to announce that he wanted ice cream. I asked if he was finished on the potty and then realized that not only was he finished, but he had the subject matter smeared all over his rear end (must have happened when I was pulling down his pull up). I instructed him to “stay right there” (which he didn’t) while I ran for the wipes. Then the phone started ringing again. I ignored it.

While I was cleaning off my three year old, I heard little voices coming from the bathroom. Great! Now the twins were in there, and most likely throwing things into the toilet. After another directive for Oliver to “stay there” (which he didn’t) I ran to find the twins and was relieved to see that they were only trying to climb onto the sink and not anywhere near the toilet. “Okay – everybody out!”

Once I got Oliver clean and busy with an activity, I saw that it was time for the twins’ bath. They raced up the stairs yelling “water!” and happily scampered into the kids’ bathroom. While simultaneously running the water, getting the twins undressed and blocking them from the tub until they were in fact naked, I saw that I was going to have a big problem on my hands… George must have run into his bedroom at some point, and was now clutching his blankie.

George is obsessed with his blankie, and I spend quite a bit of time tricking him into letting go of it so I can throw it upstairs while he’s distracted. I thought I had accomplished this when we got home, but my efforts were foiled by his wily reconnaissance. Now “Linus” wanted to bring the blankie into the tub with him. He is a toddler, and neither willing nor able to listen to reason. And since his current vocabulary consists of “car, truck, train, bus, more and thank you,” there was no point in trying to engage him in discussion about it. I had to forcibly remove the blanket and put him into the water kicking and screaming.

Eleanor splashed happily while George wailed and tried to climb out. I just washed him off quickly and then set him free to reunite with the blankie. Knowing that he had left the bathroom and could, that very minute be peeing all over the second floor, I rushed through Eleanor’s scrubbing. George and his blankie returned within minutes and I was just in time to stop him from throwing the paperback that he was aiming at the water. This was the final signal for bath time to be over, and against Eleanor’s vehement protestations, I pulled the plug. Within seconds I had two naked toddlers in Oliver’s room (where we have all of the bedtime books). One was crying (Eleanor) and one was trying to sneak out the door (George). I closed the door, placed myself in front of it and started stuffing them into their pajamas.

At this point, Oliver decided to come see what all of the commotion was about and tried to open the door. After a few seconds, I realized that he couldn’t get in, and that’s when it hit me: the door was LOCKED. The previous owners installed the door knob to Oliver’s bedroom so that it locked from the outside. I gratefully took advantage of this when we moved Oliver to his toddler bed, and found it comforting to know that I could lock the door and not worry about him wandering the house while I slept. But it never occurred to me that I could get locked in with him on the OUTSIDE.

Never one to panic, I responded to Oliver’s increasing anxiety with comforting promises that I would “fix it” and a lot of the ever popular, “in just a minute.” All the while, I was running through possible action plans. Climbing out the window was not an option since it would be a three story drop, but I thought a neighbor might be outside. So I opened the window and started calling for help. No dice. Everyone was inside their air conditioned homes.

Meanwhile Eleanor, sensing the terror in Oliver’s cries to get in, started crying even louder – which in return increased Oliver’s anxiety. George was furious that I had closed the window (because, you know – that was so much fun), and started crying as well. Great – now I had thee screaming children.

I considered trying to break the door down, but after one half hearted attempt, accepted the fact that I was not the Incredible Hulk. Then I remembered that there were a few wire hangers in Oliver’s closet. DUH – all I had to do was to use the end of a wire to poke the little hole in the door knob and spring the lock. Chris showed me how to do this in our old apartment when I used to worry about Oliver accidentally locking himself in the bathroom.

Within a minute, I had a red-faced, hysterical Oliver in my lap and equally upset twins climbing all over us. Once I had everyone somewhat calmed down, Oliver started dragging us out of the evil room that had kept us away from him for the TEN MINUTES that this drama probably took to unfold. I knew that only one thing could snap everyone out of their hysteria. So I asked, “hey – who wants ice cream?” And then all was golden.

While the twins should have been settling down to sleep and Oliver should have been preparing for his own bath, we sat around the kids’ table exclaiming over the miracle that is ice cream while traumatic events quickly disappeared from our blessedly fickle short term memories.

Good times.

Originally posted on July 24, 2008. I kind of jumped the gun on this last week with that Short Rant to a Short Man falshback. For some reason I thought it was the last Friday of the month… Ah well – one less post to write this week. Visit Scary Mommy for links to more Flashback Friday Posts!

Unfreezing Through Stream of Consciousness

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Here is the problem with taking a writing hiatus: you have no idea how to pick up where you left off. After two weeks of writing nothing, I’m not sure where to start. So I think I’ll just do a stream of consciousness recap of whatever comes to mind. I may expand on some things later (and I take requests!), but here’s the overview.

I was so sad that I couldn’t be at BlogHer, but I checked Twitter periodically to see what my friends were up to and read the post mortems – all of which were strangely satisfying… Maybe I don’t have to go – I can just read about it and feel like I was there?

One of the session topics that I’ve seen mentioned involved “finding your tribe” and I’ve found myself thinking about who my tribe is. The people I read and who read me are kind of all across the board… I have connections to people who consider themselves to be writers and people who claim to be straight up mommy bloggers with no writing talent (although I sometimes beg to differ). I know artists and designers, as well as style bloggers. I follow DIY gurus and green thumb goddesses. And I’ve shed many a tear from both laughing and crying. I don’t know that I can pick out one solid group that defines me – which is what I’ve always thought a tribe does: defines you.

It all reminds me of high school. But apparently that was how a lot of people felt about BlogHer. I told Stiletto Mom in an e-mail that I imagine I would have done pretty well at BlogHer because I was very good at high school. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, and assumed I was kind of a dork. But looking back, I can see that I was far more focused on my individual friendships than any need to keep up with the popular crowd. I was generally happy to make the most of where I was with very few longing glances at groups across the room. So if it works out, I think I will head up to NYC in 2010. And there will be an open invitation to join me at my lunch table – wherever that happens to be.

While everyone was reliving the 11th grade at BlogHer, I was at Rehoboth Beach reliving my youth. I love that beach… The beach itself was hideously crowded since our house was right in the center of things. But as a city kid (now at heart of course, since I live in the sticks), I will take shops and restaurants over quiet beaches. We could drive to a quiet beach if that’s what we wanted. I want to be able to walk to the boardwalk to pick up my iced coffee.

I’ll do a beach post with pictures next week. My camera broke about three days into the week (or more accurately, George broke it when he smacked it out of my hand during an evening walk – like I’m his paparazzi or something). My mother in law has all of the pictures after that, so she’ll have to send them to me.

Speaking of George smacking things out of my hands – the twins have turned into monsters. Remember when I jokingly compared them to this?

Yeah – not laughing anymore. They are really cute…

…but throw water on them, or take a ball point pen away from them, or tell them “no” or something and this is what happens:

I moved them into Oliver’s room recently so they’re all on the same schedule now. I couldn’t do two bedtime routines anymore and this was the only way it was going to work for us. So far, I like our new set up. The routine involves a bit too much jumping around for my liking, but when it’s time for lights out, everyone goes to their respective beds. Oliver is very much the enforcer when it comes to our bed time script and prompts me in a stage whisper, “okay – now go wie [lie] down mommy…okay now kiss Eleanor…now George…” It’s a bit disconcerting though because his stage whisper sounds like a devil voice. Not so fond of this in the dark…thank god for Twilight Turtle.

They are pretty cute though when I go into their room in the morning. They’re usually all twined up in a pile like puppies. I’ll have to take a picture.

Aside: Chris is watching a show like Cops right now, and I have to wonder, do men EVER wear shirts on these shows? Either way, they certainly aren’t doing any ab work.

Speaking of abs – I’ve been attempting to do the 30 Day Shred. Except I was unable to walk on day two, let alone do jumping jacks, so it was more like the every other day Shred that first week. Then I was vacation for week three and preferred to keep my exercise recreational. So far, I’ve only shredded once in the few days that I’ve been back, but I think I’m ready to get back on track. I’m not going to put too much pressure on myself (a surefire way to make me hate it), so it will probably be more of an every once in a while Shred kind of thing.

I like doing this now that I’m a stay at home mom. Previously, I’d worry about getting my workout in and having enough time to get ready for work and get the kids ready for daycare by our 8 a.m. leave time. So this freedom to officially start our day (i.e. turn off the TV for AT LEAST 30 minutes) at 9 a.m. without worrying about a commute is quite refreshing.

Speaking of being a stay at home mom – I really need to change my profile. I’ll try to remember that when I finish this post…

And it’s going well, thanks for asking. Except for the being good at it part. That’s still a work in progress. Previously, most of my “go to” plans for days alone with children involved food and television. Apparently this is frowned upon by people who have a thing against childhood obesity. God they’re judgey.

So I decided to attempt a home school program for preschoolers that my husband found on this site. It’s really great. Unfortunately, my children are defective. They don’t think that fun things are…fun. For instance, week one is supposed to be devoted to activities involving cows. FUN right? Well they? Don’t agree.

Monday morning at 9 a.m. I announced that we would be playing games about cows. After receiving three blank stares, I thought I’d jump right into some gross motor activities. “Okay,” I continued as I dropped down on all fours, “let’s all pretend we’re cows! Look at me – MOOOOO. Can you be a cow too? MOOOOO.” Oliver crawled over to me and said “NEIGH! Oliver’s a horse!” Of course Eleanor wanted to be a horse too. And I’m not sure what George was doing…maybe emptying the toy box?

So I gave up on that idea and put everyone in the car to hit the library and search for books on cows. We’ve only attempted the library a couple of other times, and they haven’t quite grasped the concept of being quiet and not trashing the place. But with our new cow-related mission, I figured that we had some direction.

The first thing they did when we arrived was run through the aisles in a kind of zig zag formation all the way to the opposite end of the library. I ran behind whisper-yelling at them to STOP (a stage whisper very similar to Oliver’s devil voice, now that I think of it…), which of course they ignored until I caught up to them and said that we would have to leave if they didn’t stop running.

I won’t bore you with details about them dismantling three shelves while I doggedly tried to read to them, my complete inability to understand the Dewey Decimal system, or the fact that we had to leave once they started running again. But can tell you that we did not find, let alone read one book on cows.

So far the rest of the week has been more of the same – but I feel that we’re making some headway. I’m very close to identifying the exact pitch to use while yelling for them to understand that I’m serious. Now THAT is progress.

Best part of the day? Right after the twins’ nap, I take them to the pool and I recline on a chaise while they splash around in the baby pool. This seems to be the ONLY activity that doesn’t require my constant participation.

So expect to see me on Twitter between 4-6 p.m. Unless of course it’s raining. Then we’ll all be eating cookies in front of the TV. But really good educational TV – maybe about cows.

My Hardest Break Up – By Far

And the Mother of the Year Award Goes to…

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The woman who let her four year old son snarf up a tic tac, then gave him a bloody nose trying to get it out with saline, and now isn’t sure exactly where and in what condition the tic tac is. Hopefully, dissolving quickly.

Yes, that would be me. I’m currently making up for this alien abduction-like procedure by allowing him to eat two bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Here’s to malleable short term memories and the magic of frozen milk and sugar.

First week as a stay at home mom – holla!

Thankfully it’s also the last day of my wine and dessert-free month. I’m off to the beach tomorrow and since my ass can’t get any smaller in 24 hours, I may just cheat and have a glass of red tonight.

Back to blogging hiatus now…

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

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One of my favorite online friends, Scary Mommy honored me with an invitation to guest post for her this week. She said that she thought it might be fun to have “a few people post their scary mommy moments (whatever that may mean).” And apparently, I completely missed the point…

She was talking about not being perfect – those times when you feel like “bad mom.” And I went in a totally different direction. Ultimately, she’s posting something else of mine that is more along the lines of what she had in mind. But since I went to the trouble of writing this thing, I’m posting it here.

So pretend that you are over at Scary Mommy’s blog and pretend that I completely nailed her guest post theme. And then leave me comments telling me what a tour de force this is so I can feel a little less moronic about the miscommunication.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

When Jill asked me to guest post this week, she mentioned something about “scary mommy moments.” And my immediate thought was, “where do I start?!“

I suppose that’s a universal theme of motherhood, with its never-ending firsts, challenges and fears. But along with that comes all of the triumphs, the self discovery and the great gift of testing and proving your merit as a parent. It’s a heady experience.

Being a parent is absolutely the most amazing thing that I’ve ever done. Of course it’s just as terrifying as it is thrilling. And much of the time, it also really sucks.

My initiation into the world of scary mommyhood was the complete upheaval, the world turned on it’s head, the holy crap, what the hell have I gotten myself into slap in the face, otherwise known as bringing your first baby home from the hospital.

The mystery of shell shocked new parent expressions that I had previously puzzled over was suddenly revealed. I now understood. They had just willingly signed away life as they once knew it.

And I think that’s when it starts. Truly, it’s right there at the beginning. Babies may fool you for those first few sleepy days in the hospital…but the minute they cross the threshold of their new home, they turn into mini Terminators on a mission to throw their parents’ once peaceful existence into a state of constant chaos. At least for a little while.

When sleep, something so basic to a functional life, becomes a privilege and not a right, you join the ranks of zombies so easily identified as new parents. And it really gets scary when you realize that you have no idea when the madness will end, if ever.

After one particularly taxing day with baby Oliver, I looked at my husband and said quite definitively, “I don’t know how people take care of multiples – I could never do it.“

Epilogue: 18 months later I gave birth to twins.

Another scary mommy milestone would be caring for those twins during my maternity leave. Oliver was a week late and entered this world as a healthy, nine pound bruiser. Sure, he was fussy – but nothing beyond the expected newborn hoopla.

George and Eleanor were born just shy of 37 weeks and were each under six pounds. After my first tank of a baby, I didn’t know what to make of those skinny little things. They kept their wrinkly knees pulled up in a perpetual fetal position (common with c-section babies). And they looked so fragile, that even my 18 months of first baby experience made me handle them with extra care. Their tiny boniness was so foreign to me that when I dressed them in the morning I would often think that it felt like changing kittens.

They had reflux and colic and eczema and…well, let’s just say that I spent more time at the doctor’s office in those three months than I did in the previous 18 months with Oliver.

And taking care of both of them at once! Feeding them in tandem, bathing one while the other screamed, finally getting one to settle down for a nap, only to have the other wake up…When people knowingly advised me to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” I would reply, “oh yeah? Which one?” (The Miss Manners book got thrown out the window during that period of my life…)

But of course, they too eventually learned to sit up and hold their bottles, and entertain themselves and each other. And the scary new mommy phase quietly lifted away – quite the anticlimax to its bone crushing arrival.

I also think we all experience a touch of amnesia when it comes to those early months since the screaming newborn does at some point morph into a charming, cooing infant. Love and smug admiration for our offspring will inevitably win out in the end.

But then there is always something else… Some new scary development to snap us out of our self satisfied torpor. There is no relaxing in scary mommyhood.

My oldest child just turned four, and within that time I’ve experienced the NICU, the ER, hourly wake up calls for nights on end, speech and developmental delays, biting, fighting, tantrums, teething, crying, screaming and screaming and screaming…

But I’ve also experienced peals of laughter, hand holding, I wuv yous, flashes of genius, spirited identity building, earnest honesty, sticky sweet kisses, general center of the universeness and fervent gratitude for every single day that I have with those little monsters.

They have simplified my life and brought my priorities into sharp focus. My dreams for them are infinite, while my dreams for myself drop off somewhere after “showering with the door closed.” But that’s just for now because they are a daily reminder that anything is possible. They have aged me and made me feel young again. And yes – they scare the crap out of me.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. From the very beginning, they made it clear that no matter how scary life with them can be, every day is worth it. And every day is ours.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name…

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I’m fairly certain that my neighbors think I’m an abusive parent. Or at least a raving lunatic.

Not the ones I know personally of course. They are aware of the fact that I gave birth to three children in 18 months and cut me a little slack. They’ve also seen me in action and know that I’m all about the empty threats.

Oliver! Do you want to go upstairs and take a nap!?
[Oliver hasn’t taken a nap since February 2008. Even he knows I’m bluffing on this one.]

No, I mean the ones who vaguely know me, but have never had the opportunity to meet me (i.e. the ones who walk purposefully past me and “my brood” George Costanza style, hoping that I will assume that they are very, very busy – no time to be friendly).

They hear me screaming at my children pretty much non-stop whenever we’re outside and I can only hope that they think, “well – at least she’s not beating them.”

George! Get over here! No! That is a NO-NO! Running away from mommy is a NO-NO!
[The No, No. Yes, Yes book doesn’t make quite the impact on my toddlers that one would hope.]

My poor neighbors. Every morning when we leave the house to go to work/daycare, it begins. I really do try to get everyone in the car as quickly and as efficiently as possible. But, inevitably, I have one escapee.

Eleanor! I said it’s time to GET in the car. Do NOT laugh at me, I am SERIOUS. Come over here RIGHT NOW! Do you want a spanking?!
[Eleanor is the only one whom I “spank” since she’s the only one who seems to take this seriously. Said “spanking” generally means a firm pat on her bottom. Which of course sends her into paroxysms of keening tears. She gets the shaming thing. The boys? Not so much – still figuring out what works for them…]

Since everything I yell at them outside begins with their names, it’s safe to say that anyone within a mile radius knows OLIVER! GEORGE! and ELEANOR!

And I’m not always yelling at them. Often I just “call out to them.” The yelling only comes into play when danger is involved. Or total lack of respect for my authority. Or outdoor nudity. Otherwise, I just call their names.

For example, at the grocery store. We can no longer contain them all in carts. That fun car thing on the front of “family” carts? They just climb on top of it while I’m pushing. Half the time, I’d be happy to leave them there since it means they can’t run up and down the aisles. But that kind of arrangement seems to be frowned upon by the other store patrons. And you know – I can’t stand to have complete strangers disapprove of me…

If I really need to keep them immobilized, I might throw all of them inside the cart. That way I can shove them back in when they try to climb out. But then there isn’t much room left for the actual groceries. So that only works for trips to pick up one or two items.

Plus – it is again “frowned upon” to push a shopping cart full of kids in various stages of escape. Something about the possibility of head injuries or whatever…

So nine times out of ten, I’m chasing them around the store trying to keep them in my line of sight while unloading all of the various and sundry items they fling into the cart (this ranges from cookies to boxes of Depends undergarments – they are not always particular about their choices).

I only do the serious shopping when I have Chris with me. It’s still “zone defense” but the ratio of parent to child is a little better.

The grocery store staff and other customers hear my children’s names pretty much from the minute we arrive…

Eleanor! Come back here! You have to stay where I can see you, honey…Listen to me Eleanor, that’s VERY dangerous…

…through the inevitable meltdowns…

I’m sorry George, but you are going to have to stay in the cart…NO George, don’t climb on me. I can’t carry you sweetie, you’re too big. GEORGE! DO NOT hit me! That is a NO-NO!

…to the checkout scramble (why do I NEVER remember to pick the aisle without candy?!)

No candy Oliver. I’m sorry – no. We don’t need that. Put it back Oliver. Give that to me…give it to me….OLIVER! GIVEITTOME!

There is a reason that I’m thinner now than I was before I had kids…

The general theme of all of this yelling at/calling to my children is mainly safety. So I can’t worry too much about what people think. I’d rather look like a complete bitch who yells at her kids than a frantic mother who can’t find them anywhere in the store.

And I guess at the end of the day, people are pretty understanding.

Amused even.

And often very nice.

The other day at Trader Joe’s, I had just caught up with Oliver in front of a sample display of cheese. Before I could even suggest that he stop and try some, the TJ’s staff person stationed there smiled at him and said, “Hi Oliver, can I interest you in some cheese?”

Sigh.

So yes, I think it’s safe to say that wherever we go EVERYBODY knows our names. Not so sure about the “always glad we came” part though…

The Big Piece of Cake

Never settle for a small one, and demand a corner piece with a flower.